“Don’t fear bad news.
Be confident due to your trust in the Lord.” ~ Psalm
112:7
Most of us have spent some time
thinking about our own deaths. We do it
with a sense of dreadful curiosity, and then quickly push it aside with “Well,
we’ve all got to go sometime.”
Unlike most people, I probably know the how, and maybe even
the where and when of that event. It’s intense
reality that turns the world upside down for us, our families, friends and
caregivers.
I have cancer that is incurable, aggressive, and offers
little hope for survival. Chemotherapy
is a long shot. I will leave a spouse,
children, siblings and a life that I love and cherish. I can’t imagine life without them.
There’s no bucket list.
There are no plans to sky or scuba dive, visit the Great Wall, or cruise
the western Carribean. We look to the
small things we’ve known for decades that have become precious to us now: gazing
at the stars, movie nights at home, decorating sugar cookies, daily quiet time
with God.
From nausea and hair loss, to so-called
"chemo-brain" and "metal mouth," the side effects of
chemotherapy are unpleasant. Muscles and
bones constantly talk back at me. Today self-pity
matches the painful of chemo drugs assaulting my body.
Salty tears remind me of the ocean, so turquois, calm and
vast. In my mind’s eye, I see my
husband and three children splashing in the warm water. I’m beginning to feel the distance between
us, it feels like a lifetime. Sobbing
now, I feel like an outsider, wondering how it will be without me.
I just want to see my son play baseball, watch him wave at
me standing on 2nd base. I
just want to take my daughter shopping for makeup, applying powder to her
porcelain skin. I just want to read with
my youngest, snuggled in bed together turning pages of a book. I just want to grow old with my husband,
continue to share our lives as we have for twenty-two years. The darkness of depression crashes in on me
now like a hammer.
I search for joy, but sometimes fear and sadness are overwhelming.
My misery is suddenly interrupted by a little boy with a
bald head, no older than 5. He snuck up
behind me, handed me an orange popsicle, gave my leg a big hug and said, “My
mom says we have to keep smiling.”
I smile graciously and mouth “I will.”
My mood brightens. I
gather strength. I re-commit.
I’ll do what I can every day to find that joy, and share
it. If I can’t find it I’ll make
it. That’s my pledge – to him, for them!
The bad days will come someday. But that day is not today. I am blessed.
Healing Lord, bless all those who face cancer’s
uncertainty – those awaiting test results, undergoing treatment, and living
with the fear of reoccurrence. Please
bring them comfort and strength, knowing that You hold them in Your precious
grasp. Amen
